


All That Timey Wimey Stuff

by azimuthal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Angst, F/M, Family, Friendship, Gen, Humor, M/M, Marauders' Era, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-13 22:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10523160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azimuthal/pseuds/azimuthal
Summary: "Yes, Hermione, I could destroy the space-time continuum, kill my past self, cause a paradox, kill my present self etc. etc. Oh and I found the book in the pantry which somehow makes it evil. Did I miss anything?"At the end of the Second War, Harry Potter stumbles across a book that promises to be his salvation. Meanwhile, Hermione Granger is determined to be the voice of reason. Time Travel Fic.





	1. In Which A Creepy Book Is Found

 

* * *

* * *

 

Harry stepped into Grimmauld Place. It had been five days since the bloody battle of the second wizarding war against Voldemort, and its anti-climatic finale, and Harry was extremely tired. The press had been hounding him, the people were praising him, and the dead were haunting his dreams. So here Harry was, hiding from it all.

The hallway that was as dark and dusty as it had ever been. Curiously, the sight filled him with relief. Something, at least, was untouched by the war. Stepping into the dank house, he could almost pretend that the past few years had just been a vague nightmare. That Sirius would round the corner at any moment, with his manic grin and bark-like laughter...

Harry mentally shook himself, and crept past the tattered veil behind which the portrait of Walburga Black slept. He wasn't in the mood to deal with her tirades, especially not today. Yesterday, the memorial for the fallen had been held at Hogwarts. The final battle had left the parts of the castle completely destroyed. It had never seemed emptier than when thousands had gathered in the grounds to pay their respects to those who had lost their lives. Harry, along with Hermione, Neville and Luna, had chosen the seats at the very back, while Kingsley, the interim Minister of Magic had made his speech. They had been silent the entire time. Harry had seen the Weasley family, with Mrs. Weasley sobbing continuously, in the front rows. Ron had shot him a strained smile, before settling beside George. George had not looked up even once.

Harry had slipped out before anyone else. Hermione was going to kill him for making her deal with the press without him.

Harry cracked open the door to the kitchen, coughing as a cloud of dust blew outward. It looked like Kreacher had not been here in weeks, if not months. The last Harry had seen him had been in the battle, when Kreacher had charged through the castle with the other elves, the fake locket swinging around his neck.

Harry looked through the pantry, hoping to find the bottle of Firewhiskey he knew Sirius had kept stashed somewhere, but all he found was a very fat spider that scuttled out of sight in the light. Sighing in defeat, he was about to turn back when something glinted at the corner of the shelf. Turning to look, Harry found what looked to be a gilded edge buried under a pile of rags. As he shifted the rags to the side, he was met with a heavy leather-bound book with gilded edges. There was no title, just a weird squarish golden symbol embossed into the cover. The book looked pretty old and the leather was cracked in places. Despite this, there was something entirely alien about it.

Now, Harry was no stranger to leather-bound books appearing in innocuous places. After all, he'd had to destroy one when it turned out that it was the dark lord's soul instead. So you'd think he'd be extra careful around books.

(Or so he'd tried to explain to Hermione back in fifth year, as she bodily dragged him to the library to study for OWLs. She had remained deeply skeptical.)

And Harry being Harry, did an extra stupid thing. He picked the book up.

Nothing whatsoever happened. Harry examined the cover more closely. The symbol he'd thought to be a square was actually a diamond with an eye in the middle of it. Harry flipped the book open. Nothing continued to happen. The same symbol was printed on the first page, along with the author's name.

"Tim é Wimey," Harry read out loud. He wondered if he had found another Divination book. (The Blacks were seemingly as obsessed with Divination as they were with the dark arts. Back in fifth year, when they had tried to clean this place they had found at least a dozen Divination books. Harry had taken great pleasure in throwing them in the trash. It was, he told a conflicted Hermione and a laughing Ron, quite therapeutic.)

The table of contents contained lots of entries that made no sense to Harry. "The Arithmancy of God Equation, The Bi-Polar Gaspalt's Complex, The Peculiar Interferences of The Quantum Traveller...what the hell?" Harry read as he walked back to the kitchen. It might as well have been written in French, for all Harry understood. Throwing the book on the kitchen table in disgust, Harry walked out, determined to buy that Firewhiskey that he had promised himself. It was only later in the evening when Harry returned from The Hog's Head, happily inebriated that he caught sight of the weird book again where it lay on the dusty kitchen table. With several glasses of Firewhiskey in him, it made sense for him to spend his evening reading advanced Arithmancy concepts that made him giggle drunkenly. So that is exactly what he did.

* * *

When Harry woke up, someone was poking him in the side. "Five mo minughs, Ron," he mumbled and rolled over, only to almost fall out of his chair. A tawny owl fluttered around his head at the movement, and then settled a bit further away on the table, glaring at him.

"Shoo!" Harry muttered as he lifted his head, grimacing as a page stuck to his cheek. Did he fall asleep on a bloody book? Hermione would be proud. The look the owl gave him could have curdled milk. "How did you even get in here? This place is under the Fidelius!" The snotty owl gave him a contemptuous look that would have made Snape proud and held out a leg to which a letter was attached.

"Merlin, my head," Harry lamented as he relieved the owl of its burden. The owl hooted and then flew out the kitchen door immediately. Head pounding, Harry glanced at the letter, saw Hermione's prim handwriting, and pushed the letter away. He couldn't deal with Hermione first thing in the morning, that too with a hangover.

His gaze fell instead on the book. He had apparently been reading a chapter titled "28: Time Travel And Its Consequent Fluidity".

Wait, what?

Suddenly more awake, Harry carefully read the chapter. And again. And again. By the time he had finished reading, it was mid-afternoon and his stomach was gurgling loudly.

Still, Harry felt a rush of excitement. If he could only do what this book told him to do, then he could have everyone back. He could- Harry felt lightheaded- he could have Sirius back.

Jumping into sudden action, Harry grabbed the book and ran out of the kitchen. A reckless sort of daring had seized him. If only he could find the stone again. And he was pretty sure he could; you didn't easily forget the time that you walked to a crazy dark lord, hoping he would murder you.

As Harry thundered down the stairs, he barely noticed Mrs. Black's shrieking, but he did come to an abrupt halt when the main door flew open before he could reach it, and a figure stepped through.

He must have looked a little crazy- what with the dusty clothes and hair that looked even more unmanageable than normal, not to mention the frenzied look in his eyes- for Hermione immediately stopped in the entryway warily, her mouth agape.

"Harry?"

"— FILTH! SULLYING THE HOUSE—"

"Er, hey Hermione!" He had to shout to be heard over the portrait's shrieking, which did not help him look less panicked.

The thing was, Harry was pretty panicked. Hermione was the last person he wanted to meet right now, because she was the only one who could stop him. And he really didn't want her seeing this book under any circumstances. He remembered vividly what she'd said back in their third year.

_'Awful things happen to wizards who meddle with time, Harry.'_

But they _had_ messed with time, hadn't they? And they had saved Sirius then- maybe, maybe they could save him again. But Hermione wouldn't understand that. She would want him to think logically. And he really was in no mood to do so.

Harry quickly hid the book behind his back and tried to look inconspicuous.

"—MUDBLOOD—"

Hermione had apparently had enough and quickly spelled the curtains shut with a forceful bang. She turned to Harry with a raised eyebrow. Harry promised himself that he wouldn't break. He could do this himself. He really didn't need Hermione, did he? So what if he had no idea about Arithmancy? He could learn.

"Where have you been for the past two days, Harry?" Hermione was acting all concerned, which was clearly a ruse to soften him. "You haven't returned any of our letters." Harry remained still. He wouldn't break. Hermione narrowed her eyes. "And what are you hiding behind your back right now?" She asked slowly. It was the same tone that she used when she knew he was Up To Something.

Harry broke.

* * *

Harry had been right in assuming Hermione wouldn't understand. It had been half an hour since Hermione had stepped into Grimmauld Place, and he was back in the kitchen again, but he had Hermione and her supremely pessimistic nature with him this time. It was making the bleak kitchen seem even more depressing.

"—and you could end up making the world even worse! But that's just the best case scenario! We have no idea whether this will even _work_! It's far more likely that this was written by a sadistic wizard, hoping someone would be stupid enough to try this! Not to mention you found this in the pantry, Harry, the _pantry_. Who even keeps books in the pantry?"

Harry groaned and put his head on the table with a thump.

Hermione stopped her pacing abruptly, her chest heaving. "Are you even listening to me, Harry?"

"Yes, Hermione, I could destroy the space-time continuum, kill my past self, cause a paradox, kill my present self etc. etc. Oh and I found the book in the pantry which somehow makes it evil. Did I miss anything?"

"I'm not joking, Harry!"

"I know, I know, Hermione." Harry lifted his head to stare beseechingly at his far too rational best friend. He wished he had enlisted Luna's help instead. "Listen, you said the book's author probably wants to kill me, am I right?"

"Not _you_ specifically-"

"But if he wanted whoever did this spell to die," Harry interrupted, "wouldn't he have made it easier? I mean, where would anyone even have gotten the Resurrection Stone? Everyone thought it was a myth!"

Instead of admitting defeat like Harry had been hoping, Hermione's expression grew even more pensive. "You're right." Harry sighed in relief. "It's clearly a ruse to kill _you_." "Wait- what?" "There are still many Death Eaters on the run. Anyone could have planted that book, knowing you wouldn't be able to resist."

Harry just stared in disbelief. "Hermione, the house is under Fidelius!" He conveniently didn't mention how the bloody owl had been able to get in. Hermione didn't need any more incentive to be distrustful.

"Still—" Hermione persisted.

"Why can't you just accept that maybe this is real?" Harry said quietly.

Hermione stilled and finally sat down opposite him. There was an expression of deep sympathy on her face. It was too close to pity to make him feel comfortable. Harry averted his gaze and stared stonily at the scratches on the surface of the table.

Harry heard Hermione exhale noisily and mutter, "I can't believe I'm doing this."

Harry looked up hopefully, trying his best to look charming. It was wasted on Hermione, though, who had her head in her hands.

"Fine, how about this? We _researc_ h," Hermione looked up to glare meaningfully at the last word and caught his attempt at a charming expression. " _Properly_. Everything that we can find about this supposed spell _and_ the author. And then I'll _think_ about it." Her finger shook menacingly in his direction until he nodded. "And stop looking at me like that, Harry. You look like a demented owl."

Harry beamed.

 


	2. Chapter Two: Tim E. Wimey

 

Hermione had refused to do anything for the first few weeks. No matter how much Harry pleaded, pouted or sulked, she remained firm.

"We have to prepare for our N.E.W.T.s, Harry," she'd told him in a no-nonsense tone.

"But we won't even need them if this spell works!" Harry had whined.

Hermione had primly replied that she wasn't throwing her education away on an 'if'.

And so a month passed by in a haze of cramming numerous spells and magical theorems, and cursing ancient wizards who had been cruel enough to make several important magical discoveries. Harry usually joined Hermione, Ron and Neville in studying at Neville's house. It was a sprawling place, with an intimidating facade that reminded Harry faintly of the Malfoy Manor. But whereas Malfoy Manor had had a cold and glamorous look about it, Neville's place felt homely. A huge greenhouse, that Neville showed off with pride ("Gran said I could do whatever I want to with it! I've already got a Peruvian Poppy in there..."), could be seen in the back gardens.

Ron seemed to have gained some newfound determination with which he attacked his studies. He was quieter too, more solemn. Hermione didn't say anything, but he caught enough of her glances to know that she was worried about him. Fred lingered on their minds frequently, but Harry tried not to think of all those who died. Whenever his thoughts turned dark, he instead did his utmost to focus on Tim E. Wimey's book that Hermione had stuffed in her beaded bag.

Harry and Hermione had decided not to tell Ron about the spell they had found, yet, because, as Hermione had pointed out, "You don't want to give him any false hope, Harry." _Especially after Fred_ went unsaid.

Harry had also received numerous invitations to various galas and ministry functions, which made him shudder just thinking about it. He had taken great pleasure in burning all of them one by one.

It was presently the 25th of June, 1998. The N.E.W.T.s had been a nightmare that was now past them, and Harry was fairly sure he had passed most of the subjects. (He had a feeling that this year's N.E.W.T.s had been dumbed down significantly for them. It was fairly embarrassing.)

Harry, Hermione and Neville were sitting under a beech tree at the Burrow, watching Ron and Ginny play broom tag in the air, when Harry broached the subject again. He'd tried to catch Hermione alone for several days now, but she always seemed to be with someone else. Harry wondered if she'd forgotten about her promise or if she wished that _he_ had forgotten. She was clearly deluding herself if she thought so, because he could out-stubborn her on the worst of days.

"Hey, Hermione?" Harry asked quietly. Neville was scribbling something in a notebook beside him. "You...er...research that thing you said you would?"

At first Hermione seemed to not hear him at all, her eyes fixed on Ginny's broom in the sky. But finally, she bit her lip, and sent a wary glance in Neville's direction, before looking at him. She looked nervous and hesitant.

"What?" Harry said.

"Oh, Harry, I looked up the author," Hermione began in a low, rushed tone. "And there's no mention of him, anywhere. And I do mean _anywhere_ , in any book I came across. I even asked for Professor Vector's help, but she had never heard of him." Hermione sighed. "I think... I think I was right, you know, and it _is_ a ruse. No, Harry-" Hermione pressed on before he could interrupt. "I don't think Tim E. Wimey ever existed."

"Did you guys just say Tim E. Wimey?" Neville asked slowly, from behind Harry. He was glancing between them in confusion. "Because I know where you can find her."

* * *

"I remembered the name because it's such a weird one, isn't?" Neville told them when they congregated in the living room of Grimmauld Place later in the day. Perhaps it was the Fidelius, or the lack of sunlight, but Harry felt it safer to talk about this spell here rather than anywhere else. Neville showed them the slightly dusty tome he brought with him. It was called '1001 Magical Cacti.'

"You remember my Mimbulus Mimbletonia, Harry?" Neville sat down in an armchair and cracked the book open on his knees.

"Vividly," Harry muttered, remembering the way he had taken Stinksap to the face and the ensuing humiliation in front of Cho.

"Right," Neville said with a blush, clearly remembering the same thing. He flipped through the pages. "I was researching them in our fifth year, you know, for this extra credit project Professor Sprout assigned me. It really is such a brilliant plant—"

"Neville." Hermione interrupted.

"Right, sorry, here it is," he pushed the book towards Hermione who snatched it up immediately. "Tim E. Wimey was a herbologist. She was the one who discovered Mimbulus Mimbletonia in Assyria." Neville grimaced. "She was also, unfortunately, its first victim."

"She?" Harry said. "Wait- victim?"

"' _Mimbulus Mimbletonia is a rare magical plant found mainly in the desert plains of Assyria. It was first discovered by the British explorer and herbologist Tim E. Wimey, also known as Timonesia Black through her marriage to Phineas Nigellus Black,-'_ " Hermione paused and glanced up. " _'—in 1865. Tim E. Wimey is also the first known witch to suffer from Stinksap poisoning—_ '"

"What?" yelped Harry. He whirled on Neville. "You said it was not poisonous!"

"That's not—" began Neville.

"Everything is a poison in the right amount, Harry," Hermione said patiently, seemingly unconcerned about his possible demise. "Now hush up and let me finish." Hermione waited until he had subsided to continue. " _'—Stinksap Poisoning, although there were known reports of muggles suffering from similar symptoms in the valley. The symptoms include, but are not limited to, skin rashes, hallucinations, blindness, impotence, and neurosis.'_ "

Harry stared at Neville in horror.

Hermione perused the rest of the entry. "Hmm...It doesn't say what caused the poisoning or what happened to her afterwards."

"It's only the young ones that are poisonous," piped up Neville brightly. "The seedlings."

"Well, at least we know where we can find more about her," said Hermione, the same intense look on her face she got when she was on a research roll. Harry almost expected her to say she was off to the library. Hermione got up and rushed out of the room.

Harry and Neville exchanged a glance before hastily following her.

"Why are you guys so interested in her anyway?" Neville said as they followed Hermione's determined footsteps upstairs.

"Er..." said Harry.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"No, Neville, that's not –" Harry glanced up to see Hermione, who had paused on the second floor landing. She rolled her eyes.

"We'll tell you, Neville. After all, I highly doubt there's any chance of this spell working, when we know it was _written by a Black suffering from hallucinations_." She said the last bit pointedly in Harry's direction, who scowled.

She whirled around and stomped up to what used to be Harry and Ron's room back in fifth year. It was also where Hermione had put back Phineas Black's painting after the war.

"Alright, let's get this over with," she muttered as she came to a stop in front of the empty painting that hung on the wall. Harry and Neville followed sedately behind. Hermione pulled out her wand, and prodded the canvas with it.

"Phineas Nigellus!" she spoke firmly. "Phineas Nigellus Black!"

The painting remained empty, just showing a yellowish background, but Harry had the distinct impression someone was skulking out of sight.

"Professor Black, we need to speak to you, please." Hermione tried politely.

Nothing happened.

"I'm perfectly capable of casting Fiendfyre, you know," She lifted her wand threateningly. Harry thought he detected a slight movement near the edge of the frame, but no one appeared. "Or perhaps I'll do this the old-fashioned way," Hermione mused loudly. "I've seen the muggle paint removers work wonders. Just ask Walburga Black."

There was a terrified pause, in which Neville and Harry exchanged a commiserating glance promising to never piss off Hermione, before Phineas Nigellus sidled in. His face was set in his usual snide expression but Harry thought he could detect a little terror in his clever, dark eyes.

"As if a magical painting could be erased by muggle means," Phineas Nigellus sneered. " _Muggleborns_. They think they know everything. My great-granddaughter-in-law's portrait is— "

"Perfectly insane as it has always been, I know." Hermione interrupted calmly. "We just needed to talk to you."

"You must be truly delusional if you think I would help you after the last time," he said snarkily, already starting to move back out. "Good day to you."

"We wanted to know about your wife," Harry burst out.

"My wife?" Professor Black said blankly. "Why do you want to know about Ursula, Mr. Potter?"

"Ursula?" Harry replied, just as blankly. "No, I meant Timonesia Black. Or...er...Tim E. Wimey."

Phineas Nigellus' face twitched for a second, before settling on an innocently confused look. "I'm afraid I do not have any knowledge of this... Timonesia. I was married to Ursula Flint. Quite happily, I might add."

Harry, who doubted Phineas Nigellus had done anything happily except for torture his students, was sceptical.

Apparently, so was Hermione.

"So you've never heard of Tim E. Wimey," Hermione said doubtfully. She turned to look at Harry and Neville. "Guys, I wonder if the memory charm works on paintings? I mean, all paintings _are_ is an enchanted memory. So if I obliviate Professor Black here, would he simply cease to exist?" She turned back to the portrait, thoughtfully tapping her wand against it.

Phineas Black looked disconcerted. "Your threats are so very plebeian, little girl." His eyes darted from Hermione to Harry to Neville, before he visibly deflated. "I think I know why you are asking about her, Potter, I can see it in your expression—but I urge you to use caution. The results could be...disastrous otherwise."

He looked at the three of them a touch beseechingly. When no one spoke up, he sighed and said, "Timonesia was my first wife," he looked distant and a little regretful. "She had always had such wild ideas, like consorting with muggleborns," Hermione scowled. "But it was only in the summer of 1865, after her return from Turkey with that strange plant, that she got even wilder. I did not realise there was anything wrong with her, at first. She had always been a little peculiar, you see, and the healers had assured me that the poison from that plant had all been extracted from her body," Phineas Black seemed to hesitate before he continued. "But it was near Samhain that she approached me with a new spell she had invented. ' _A marvel of Arithmancy_ ' she called it. She seemed far too thrilled with herself. I admit I thought it hogwash." He grimaced. "I was wrong."

Hermione started. Clearly, she had not predicted that last statement.

"The spell could make you travel back and forth in time. Any amount of time. And according to her, change the course of time itself," Neville threw Harry a startled glance at this. "I was quite vocal about my disparagement, of course. This was a century before time turners were invented, you realise. Well, when she wagered something I could not refuse, on her being right, I agreed to let her cast the spell on herself."

"You let your wife cast an unknown spell on herself?" Hermione sounded horrified, her hands pressed to her mouth. Harry privately agreed, remembering Flitwick's lecture ' _Never forget Wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest.'_ But then remembered he'd been about to do the same thing before Hermione stopped him. He shifted guiltily.

Phineas shot her a dark look but ignored her and continued to address Harry. "Before casting the spell, she scribbled something on a parchment and showed it to me. It read ' _5th of November 1865'_." Phineas fell silent and seemed to gaze into the distance.

"What happened, then?" Neville finally spoke up. Harry looked at him. His face was blank but there was a dark gleam in his eyes that Harry understood too well.

"My wife performed the spell and vanished into thin air. My family thought she'd perished on one of her travels. I was engaged to Ursula Flint by next summer." Phineas Nigellus expression was grave. "5th of November came. But Timonesia did not appear."

Harry felt his stomach fall. But Hermione was frowning in thought. "You said you were wrong about the spell being hogwash," she said.

"Timonesia didn't appear in 1865. She came to me in 1915. She hadn't aged a day since I last saw her."

Harry's mouth fell open. "So the spell did work?"

Phineas Nigellus shook his head. "Not the way she meant it to. She appeared in my office quite suddenly, at the same place she had left. At first I wondered if I had not imagined her. I had been working for several hours, you see, and I was quite exhausted. Not to mention, I had long given up any hope of seeing her again," He sighed. "But she looked just like she used to. And sounded the same too. She appeared quite bewildered at my aged appearance, and I had to assure her that I was, or at least used to be, her husband. She was distraught. Despite my entreaties to stay, she performed the spell again to return where she had meant to go in the first place. The 5th of November 1865."

"But she had never appeared there at all," Hermione completed softly.

"No, no she had not, Ms. Granger. And I never saw her again." Phineas Nigellus' dark eyes landed on Harry. "And that is why I must caution you. Because I know how easy it is to give in to your regrets. Because I regretted her loss so much that I performed the spell on _myself_ a day after her second disappearance in 1915. I was determined to stop her from ever using the spell in the first place. I had a curious sensation of falling through time, before I appeared in my office on the 28th of October 1965, on the same day that she had vanished for the first time."

Dusk was falling outside the window as the portrait continued its tale. None of them moved. "I was...not alone. I looked up and saw _myself_ , younger than I had ever been in ages, and _her_. My other self was understandably hostile at seeing me. Even when I tried to explain that I _was_ him. Time travel had never been documented then, you see, and he thought I was an imposter. But Timonesia, she understood, because she had invented that spell already, and I realised later that I had interrupted that fateful meeting when she'd explained the spell to me. So as me and my younger self exchanged spell-fire, she tried to stop us, only to get hit by a spell my younger self had thrown. And I was so irate and terrified of losing her again that I killed my younger self before he could utter another word, or before I could think clearly. Timonesia was dead, and so was my younger self, but I, curiously was still alive."

Harry, Hermione and Neville stood in horrified silence. There was a glittering in Phineas Nigellus' eyes that might have been tears, as he paused, and I wondered if this was the first time he had shared this story with anyone.

"I was not dead, but I had two dead people in the office with me. I did what any Slytherin would have done. I vanished the bodies. I used a deaging potion and pretended to be the younger Phineas Nigellus Black, the one I had just murdered. My family assumed Timonesia had perished on one of her travels. I was engaged to Ursula Flint by next summer."

Harry did not know what to say. Neville was equally silent next to him. There were tears in Hermione's eyes.

"When I finally died in 1925, I had been using deaging potions for sixty years. I loathed those sixty years. I was perhaps the worst Headmaster Hogwarts had ever seen. What did I care about teaching when I had been the reason for the death of my wife, not once, but twice?" Phineas Black's dark eyes landed on Harry again, and he seemed to want to say something else, before he closed his eyes and swept out of the painting, just leaving a murky backdrop behind.

* * *

"Hermione, calm down, will you? You're kicking up a dust storm."

They were back in the living room again, and Hermione was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. Harry and Neville had sat down on the couch. Neville was gazing at his hands, and looked deep in thought. Phineas Nigellus' story had left them all shaken, and the hope in Harry's chest was now intermingled with the anxiety of failing. What if he became the reason for Sirius' death again? Or any one of his friends'? How could he live with himself if he made the future worse? Perhaps Hermione had been right. Perhaps, time was not meant to be changed at all, but remain immutable...

"Are we going to do it?" Neville's voice interrupted his thoughts, and he looked at him. He looked determined; his jaw clenched and eyes steely, the same way he had looked in the final battle.

"We?" Harry blurted.

"As if I would let you do this alone, Harry. You are our leader, remember?" Neville was gazing calmly back at his gobsmacked expression.

"That's not—Voldemort's _dead_ , Neville. I'm nobody's leader anymore," Harry stammered.

"But if we go back, he won't be, will he? And you'll need all the help you can get." Neville was nodding to himself. Hermione was looking between them, before she came over and dropped down beside him to put her hand on his arm, and Harry understood what she was saying.

Harry felt a rush of affection for both of them. But this was his battle. It had always been. And Sirius had been his mistake. If anyone deserved to suffer for any unforeseen consequences, it was him.

"I won't ask you to come with me," said Harry, quietly. Neville just met his pleading gaze evenly, and Hermione looked at him in shock and hurt, but Harry continued relentlessly. "I won't ask you to come with me because I've already asked too much from you, Hermione. And you too, Neville. I know you'd do anything to help me. You've got a life here. You've got Ron, and Luna and Ginny, and your parents or grandmother. You're war heroes. You've got a future here." Harry looked away from their angry gazes.

He sighed. "I can't ask you to give up everything for me. Not again."

Harry didn't know what he expected but it certainly wasn't a slap to the head.

"Ow!" He stared at Hermione with reproach, which changed to trepidation at the furious look on her face.

"You didn't ask anything from me, you daft twit! I did everything I did because I wanted to!" Harry had never seen Hermione look so mad. He was reminded, irresistibly, of the time in third year when she'd punched Malfoy in the face, and ducked a little to avoid any fists that might come flying at his face. "And what _future_ , Harry?"

Hermione's voice rose hysterically at the end, and Harry opened his mouth to interrupt, but Hermione quelled him with a single ferocious glare. "A future where every day, all I can think about is everyone who _died_? A future where my own parents can't bear to even _look_ at me, are _afraid_ of me because I wiped their memories? Because perhaps they are just now realising that I'm a witch? So no, Harry, you are not going to ask me to come with you, because I'm doing that all on my own. Again."

And then Hermione burst into tears.

Harry stared at the sobbing witch in shock, having no idea what to do. He had never been that great at comforting people, especially crying ones, what with not having received any comfort himself at the Dursley's, except perhaps a slap or frying pan to the head.

He patted Hermione's bushy head awkwardly. He had a feeling he was doing this comforting thing wrong, and it was confirmed when Hermione let out a wet and slightly hysterical giggle behind her hands, and looked at him like he was hopeless.

Ignoring the look, Harry cleared his throat.

"Er...Hermione, you okay?"

Hermione nodded and sniffled, wiping her face on her sleeves.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Harry muttered. "You should have told me about your parents."

"It's not your fault, Harry."

"She's right, you know," Neville said softly. "You are not asking us to come, Harry. We are doing that all on our own. I'll talk to my Gran, and I know she'll be proud of me." A wistful smile crossed his face. "For giving up a peaceful future to save lives. Can you imagine anything more noble?"

Neville clapped him on the back. "So, you see, you can't get rid of us now."

* * *

Ron came by the next day with Hermione, who had told him what they had found. Ron looked sad, but also understanding.

"I wish I could come with, you know, more than anything. But Mum..." Ron trailed off, but Harry understood. Molly Weasley had already lost one son. Harry could not be the reason she lost another. "But I can help, of course. Need me to research anything, Hermione?" He attempted to grin, but it did not reach his eyes.

Hermione's eyes were shiny, and Harry felt a lump in his throat. Ron and Hermione had been his best friends for seven years. He had been prepared to leave everything behind, even little Teddy, in the hope of a better future, but somehow he had discounted how he would feel at the thought of never seeing one of them again.

Hermione rushed and pulled Ron into a hug that looked rib-crackingly tight, but he merely patted Hermione on the head. "Women, huh?" he said to Harry, but fell quiet when Harry joined the hug.

They began planning when Neville arrived in the afternoon. "I told Gran everything," he said when they'd settled down in the kitchen, eating the meal had packed for them. "She's sad but she understands, you know? She said I was my parents' son, and if I wasn't I wouldn't have said yes in the first place," he added quietly.

"All right, first things first," said Hermione when they had finished the meal, and the silverware had been stacked in the sink. "What time were you thinking of going to, Harry, the day I found you with the book?"

"Wait—wait, let me get this straight," Ron interrupted. "You were going to perform a random spell, that you found in a random book, _that_ you found in a pantry in the Black bloody manor ("What is it with you guys and the pantry?!"), without telling anyone? Merlin, are you barmy? And you say that _I_ am thick!" he added the last bit to Hermione.

"Alright, alright, I get it. It was stupid. Can we please just get over this?" Harry said loudly. He ignored Ron's disbelieving look and continued, "I was thinking of going to our fifth year. You know, before Sirius."

"Why not in our fourth year?" Neville said curiously. "We could stop Voldemort from rising in the first place."

"I thought about it," Harry admitted. "But there's some risk in that. I mean, even if we stop him at the end of the Triwizard tournament, who's to say he wouldn't find some other way of resurrecting?"

"Or what about third year?" Ron asked. "You could catch Scabbers, I mean, Pettigrew, that rat bastard."

Neville looked confused. "You guys have got to tell me all these back stories."

"Wait, guys. I've been thinking," Hermione spoke up. She was biting her lip. "Going back in our timelines is very risky. Remember what happened to Phineas Nigellus Black? If one of us slips up even for a second, or anyone recognises us, then it could have terrible consequences."

"So, what, we should go forward?" Neville said confusedly.

"No, no. What I meant was— what if we go back _beyond_ our timelines?"

Hermione's question was met with silence. Harry felt like he could not breathe. He had never imagined, even for a second, that he might get his parents back. That dream had crashed and burned back when he was eleven years old and Dumbledore had told him that there was no magic that could bring back the dead. His parents had always been such a vague memory in the back of mind, somehow _unreal_ and out of his reach forever. And then there had been that walk to death in the final battle, when he had half-wondered and half- wished that he would see his parents again, and Sirius, when he died. But that had been snatched from him too. He knew now though, that the shades that he had seen had not been his parents at all, because if it was _his_ child walking to his death—if it was Teddy, would Harry say that he was proud of him to be sacrificing himself? No, no Harry would plead him to turn back, to _not_ walk to the Dark Lord like a lamb to its slaughter...

In that enchanted mirror, in the stone, in all those photographs, in the pensieve, and his mother's letter, all he'd seen were shades of people that had once existed. The idea of meeting the real ones took his breath away.

"We could stop Voldemort before he ever existed. When he made his first horcrux, perhaps, when he committed the first murder—" Hermione was saying. But Harry hardly heard her. His eyes were fixed on Neville, and his pale visage, and the way that he looked like he had been hit over the head with a mallet. Harry remembered the blank eyes of Frank Longbottom, a bubblegum wrapper being slipped into a pudgy hand, and the bright faces of Neville's parents as they waved from an old photograph, and Harry realised that Hermione had lost a battle before it'd ever begun.

"No, Hermione," said Harry with firm resolve. Neville looked up to meet his gaze. "We go to 1975."


	3. The Journey

Hermione did not put up a lot of fight. He had been prepared to use everything in his arsenal to get her to agree, but she was surprisingly amenable about his insistence that they go to the 1970s. Harry wondered if she did this out of pity, and he did catch her looking understandingly in Neville's direction, but then decided that he didn't want to know.

He was going to meet his parents and Sirius again.

Neville seemed to exist in the same state of nervous euphoria that Harry felt, except he also looked guilty from time to time. Harry wondered if he was thinking of his parents, who were alive, and who he'd be leaving behind. But wouldn't all of this world just vanish, when they arrived in the past? Would the present day simply unravel? Or would, perhaps, the people remember something in the back of their minds about the previous reality? Of things that could have been? Would there be a little Harry in the future (or the past?) with both of his parents alive, but who would also dream of being a time traveller? Harry wondered. And then there was the mystery of what happened to Timonesia Black. Why did she first arrive fifty years later than she meant to? And where did she vanish the second time?

Would they too simply disappear like her if something went wrong? Was he setting up his friends to die? He did not voice his doubts, but they remained buzzing through his brain.

He joined the others in a frenzy of research. Hermione had them searching out decades old newspapers —everything from the Daily Prophet to Witch Weekly. Stacks of them could be seen littering the Grimmauld Place living room.

"So, Voldemort had made, what, five horcruxes, before he was destroyed in 1981?" said Harry. "I was the sixth and Nagini was the seventh."

Neville, who had been given a crash course in the insanity that had been Harry's seven years at Hogwarts, still looked horrified and little sick.

Hermione was jotting down something on a piece of parchment. "The diadem would be the easiest to get. The diary was given to Lucius Malfoy, but when did he get it?" She chewed on the end of her quill. "Regulus died in 1979, so obviously the locket horcrux was made sometime before then, but we don't know exactly when. The ring was in the Gaunts' place, wasn't it? But we don't know exactly what protections were in place—"

"We could ask Dumbledore's portrait about those," Harry interrupted.

"Right, we'll do that. But let's leave that for the last moment. Who knows who the portrait will babble everything to? And we don't need this getting out." Hermione looked less than pleased at the prospect to talking to Dumbledore, even if it was just a painting.

"Are you upset at Dumbledore?" Harry asked, confused.

"Are you not?" When Harry merely looked his confusion, Hermione continued furiously. "He raised you like a, like a martyr, Harry! He wanted you to die! And not only that—he wanted you to _kill yourself_!"

"I know that Hermione. It's not like I'm going to be naming any of my children after the man. Honestly? I've just tried to put it out of my mind." Harry rubbed his scar. "I mean, he's dead. It's not exactly productive to hold a grudge against a dead man, is it?"

"He's not going to be dead in 1975," Ron pointed out from somewhere behind a tall stack of newspapers. Hermione had assigned him the job of noting down all of Voldemort's raids, which would have once elicited a lot of grumbling, but which now Ron did without any complaints.

"Which is why we avoid meeting him at all costs," Harry shrugged. "But back to the horcruxes, that leaves the Hufflepuff cup."

Hermione calmly rolled up her parchment. "Yes, that one is potentially problematic."

"Oh, please don't exaggerate on my account, Hermione."

They started learning Occlumency in mid-July since they might end up in close proximity to Dumbledore and Voldemort, and they would rather not be open books for people to read. For the first time in his life, Harry was better than Hermione at something academic. Since the time he had occluded Voldemort from his mind using his grief, he found he had an easier time with it. He simply threw up the most heart-wrenching emotions he could think of at the forefront of his mind, and the attacker, usually Hermione, could not get in without feeling sick.

Hermione found that she could not use this technique effectively, but Neville had no problem picking it up and was actually learning faster than Hermione. Harry refrained from gloating, but only barely.

They had also drained their Gringotts accounts into Hermione's beaded bag. Ron and Harry then had the laborious task of separating out all coins made before 1975. The rest were deposited back into the bank. By September Ron had started Auror training, which was apparently more rigorous than he had anticipated, and he could only join them on weekends.

They ran into a snag when Harry, against his expectations, was unable to find the Resurrection Stone. He wondered if someone had filched it, or if it had gotten buried under the earth, but Hermione had something different to say.

"I don't think she used the Resurrection Stone, Harry," she said, tapping her finger on the open page of Tim E. Wimey's book. "Where would she have gotten it anyway? Didn't you say that the Gaunt Family used to have it?" Harry nodded. "Right. Plus, we know Phineas Nigellus Black definitely did not have it. Can you imagine him letting it get out of the Black family? No, it says here, 'The stone of resurrection'. That could actually mean any gemstone that symbolises resurrection. I asked Professor Black about it, and after numerous slights to my intelligence, he told me he, and his wife, used an Emerald crystal."

Neville looked thoughtful "So the both of them—they used the same stone," Hermione nodded. "And as far as we know, his wife didn't make a mistake in pronunciation or anything? But then why did she-,"

"Appear fifty years late?" Hermione finished, like she was expecting the question.

"And didn't appear at all the second time," Harry added.

Hermione blew a strand of hair out of her face. Her hair had been getting frizzier for months, and now as it was nearing October, it appeared like cat had made a nest out of it.

"I think I know what happened. Time travel has an inherent instability about it, you know. Why do you think time turners can only go back a few hours? Theoretically, the further you go, the less stable the process is. Of course, Tim E. Wimey apparently solved this problem with a clever bit of Arithmancy. But according to what I can figure out, there still remains another kind of instability. That of the human body and its limits."

"Er..." said Harry, bemused. Neville looked a little lost too.

Hermione seemed a little exasperated. "The human body only knows linear time, Harry. So, the more times a person travels, the less certain his destination becomes."

"So, Tim E. Wimey must have travelled before?" Neville asked.

Hermione beamed. "Exactly. But she clearly didn't know what was happening, or she wouldn't have attempted it again after being off by fifty years. Because from what I can figure out, this sort of uncertainty increases exponentially. Most probably, the first time she did this, she appeared precisely when she meant to. The next time she might have been off by a few hours, or days, because she clearly didn't notice anything was wrong. Maybe she thought she had made a mistake in the incantation? And then she did it in front of her husband, and she was fifty years late. As for the last time, well, I can't really say without knowing the exponentiation factor, but, if I assume—that is to say—"

"Hermione, spit it out." Harry said.

Hermione looked pale as she continued solemnly. "At least fifteen billion years." She licked her lips. "The earth is four and a half billion years old. The age of the universe—the age of the universe is thirteen billion years."

And with that morbid assessment, Harry understood Hermione's need for perfection. Because if they messed this up, there would be no second chances. The spell was going to be difficult enough with three people instead of one, according to her. Harry shuddered as he thought of Tim E. Wimey. Where would you even _go_ if you went to a time when time itself did not exist?

* * *

The last part of the plan consisted of creating their past identities. They could appear as the adults they now were but that plan had a flaw, according to Hermione.

"Our OWLs and NEWTs, Harry. We can't fake them." Hermione said, as the two of them strolled through Muggle London. Halloween was fast approaching, and many shops could be seen bright costumes and masks. Harry had asked Hermione to come with him to pick out a present for Teddy, and he now carried two bags full of costumes and toys. Of all the people he was leaving behind, Teddy was the one he would regret the most. Harry had asked Ron to look after him, but perhaps, if everything went right, Teddy would have his parents right there with him.

"Why not?" They had broken into the Ministry once, so Harry figured they could do so again. He told Hermione so.

"Because those results are locked up tighter than an Undersecretary's office, Harry. Plus, what would happen if no examiner could remember us taking the exams? It's too risky," Hermione explained. "Though we might need to break into the Ministry anyway," she added under her breath.

"I'll explain later," she said at his questioning look.

"I'm not taking the bloody exams again, Hermione," Harry groaned. A passing woman shot him a judgemental look. "Do we even need them?"

Hermione looked at him as if he'd done something blasphemous. " _Obviously_. Are you planning to simply vanish once the war is over? We'll need to have jobs anyway. But—" Harry shot her a hopeful look. "—it'd probably raise questions if three grown people just appear out of nowhere to take their exams at the same time. Questions we probably should avoid given our lack of background."

"So we simply need to attend Hogwarts again," Harry shrugged. "We could pass of as seventh years, I reckon."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Harry, have you ever even _touched_ Hogwarts: A History?" When Harry shot her a sheepish look, she huffed. "Hogwarts doesn't just take students anytime, you know. There's a reason it's called the premier magic school in Britain." Hermione paused when they reached the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry tried to look inconspicuous, but it was a wasted effort as Hermione's bushy hair was as popular as his scar these days. After several minutes, in which they had to extract themselves from the crowd, which had started clapping and cheering as soon as they had entered, and a nod to Tom, they were finally in the Diagon Alley. It was only when they had reached the Apparition Point and apparated back to Grimmauld Place that Harry spoke again.

"I can't believe they still keep doing that. Hey, Neville," he threw his bags on the table and dropped into an armchair.

"Hey, Harry. Hermione, I found that record you asked for," Neville slid her some official looking papers.

"What're those?" Harry asked curiously.

"As I was saying Harry, Hogwarts doesn't just take students willy-nilly. But, there is an exchange program for students once every few years, where students can transfer out of other schools into Hogwarts." Hermione was shuffling through the parchment.

"I don't remember any exchange programs." Harry frowned, trying to remember any foreign witches or wizards, but couldn't come up with anything. "Well, except the Triwizard Tournament."

"You wouldn't." Neville offered. "Gran says there hasn't been one in nearly twelve years."

"I can't imagine students rallying up to enter Britain recently. One professor murdered, another's memory wiped, students being petrified, and the one time the Triwizard tournament is resurrected, a student _dies_. Wizards may be idiots, but they can still spot patterns." Hermione said.

"Right."

"Anyway, our best chance is to get into another school and then get into Hogwarts through the exchange program."

"What, Beauxbatons?" Harry said.

"That would be equally hard. No—" Hermione pulled out of a sheaf of parchment. "Kwikspell School."

"Like the one Filch got letters from?" Harry asked doubtfully.

"Well it _is_ a correspondence course, but it is legitimate." Hermione shook the parchment in her hand. "It's also done by students from extremely poor families, so we'd have an excuse of being complete nonentities. And according to this, five students from Kwikspell applied to attend Hogwarts in 1975, but were rejected due to their poor scores."

"That's convenient," Harry muttered.

"We shouldn't have any problem passing the entrance test since we have passed our NEWTs," said Hermione happily.

"But why do we need to go to Hogwarts at all? If we could get our OWLs through Kwikspell?" Neville asked. "I mean, I would love to go there—" his voice turned soft. "—but you seem so set about Hogwarts—"

"For Snape," Hermione looked down to let her hair hide her face.

"Snape?" Harry blurted disbelievingly.

"We need to stop him from becoming a Death Eater, Harry," Hermione said passionately. "He wasn't a bad person—"

"But he was a right git to all of us," Harry said heatedly. "One good deed does not absolve him. He became a death eater because he wanted to. He was the one who betrayed my parents. _Because he wanted to_. If he hadn't been obsessed with my mother, he wouldn't even have cared that Voldemort went after them. If it had been any other family, any other mother—"

"I know that, Harry!" Hermione interrupted. "But if we can give him a chance, then maybe he wouldn't hear the prophecy in the first place."

"Maybe there wouldn't be any prophecy since we'll be changing the past?" Neville piped up tentatively.

"Or maybe we can off Trelawney before she gets a chance to ruin my life," Harry said, only half-joking.

Hermione harrumphed. "All I'm saying is we don't know his reasons—"

"Even if he had a lousy childhood," said Harry, remembering the small child he had seen in Snape's memories, cowering in a corner, and felt a pang of sympathy and remorse, but continued doggedly. "Well so did I, but you don't see me gearing up to join a dark lord."

"You're worth twelve of Snape, Harry, everyone knows that." Neville shot him a grin. Harry grinned too recalling the time he had said something similar to Neville.

"So you don't want to go to Hogwarts, Harry?" Hermione raised her eyebrows. " Your parents would be there."

"Low blow, Hermione," Neville said, shaking his head, as Harry quieted with an 'oh'.

Hermione smiled smugly. "Next, we need to change the way you look, Harry. You look exactly like your father right now. I don't think we need to do you, Neville."

"Everyone says I look like my mum, but I don't think it would be that noticeable," said Neville.

"I'm not dyeing my hair," said Harry firmly.

"Oh, I don't think that would be enough," said Hermione, biting her lip. "You see, Harry, the resemblance is so strong, I'm afraid our only solution is this potion." She reached into her beaded bag to withdraw a flask containing a light green liquid. She held it out to Harry.

"What's this?" he asked, examining it.

"It's a little like Polyjuice potion, really." Hermione told him. "It just doesn't need anyone's...uh...essence. Drink it."

Harry shrugged and vanished the cork, before starting to chug it down. It tasked curiously like water.

"I have never heard of any potion like that," Neville said confused.

"Oh you must have," Hermione said airily, but her eyes were dancing with mirth. "It's the Sex Change potion. Just one sip, and Harry's permanently a girl."

Harry sprayed the table in potion, and stared at Hermione in horror, while Neville roared with laughter. Hermione burst into giggles.

Harry glared at her, but also sighed in relief at the fact that his bits were where they were meant to be, and there were no extra...appendages on his chest.

"What is it really?" Neville asked with a grin.

"Coloured water." Hermione giggled.

* * *

It was finally the day of their departure. 31 October 1998. It seemed fitting that his life was going to begin anew on the same day that it had first been destroyed.

Harry had said goodbye to Teddy just this morning. He was leaving him everything he owned except his invisibility cloak, the Marauders' Map and a few galleons. The rest of the items would be too dangerous to bring with them to the past, even though it wrenched his heart to leave behind his photo album and Firebolt.

Ron had joined them for the last time. They were near the Burrow on a deserted little hill. According to Ron, there had been nothing here even back in the 1970s. Hopefully it would be deserted enough that no one would sense any magical disruption when they arrived, because the last thing they needed was the Unspeakables breathing down their necks. They had almost done this at the Grimmauld Place before Hermione had stopped their stupidity once again—

("Oh, I almost forgot," Hermione interrupted. "We can't perform the spell here."

"Why not?" Harry asked, confused.

"Harry, how would Walburga Black react to having three strangers in muggle clothing suddenly appear in her living room?" Hermione arched an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, right," Harry said, sheepish.)

Hermione placed the large Emerald crystal she'd brought with her on the grass and instructed them to stand in a circle around it, and hold each other's hands. She began the incantation. It was a long and arduous one ;completely in Old Latin. As Hermione spoke, Harry glanced at Ron. He stood a little way away, looking at them with indescribable sadness. The last thing Harry saw was Ron's bright red hair before he vanished.

Travelling through time was nothing like dying. There was a curious sensation of weightlessness for a moment, and then the world around him dissolved. His stomach (did he even have a stomach right now?) swooped as if he was plummeting at an incredible speed. He did not know which direction was up or down—was he falling on his head or his feet? All he was aware of was a sense of hurtling backward through time. He tried to open his eyes, but the darkness and the shadows were as blinding as the brightest light, and all he could do was fall.

It could have been a moment or a millennium, and then it was over. As swiftly as the journey had started, it stopped, and he was left standing in lightly swaying grass atop a hill with Neville and Hermione at his side, a fat moon shining above them.

They had arrived.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supposing Tim E. Wimey was off by 5 days the second time, that leaves
> 
> 5^6 = 15625 days (fifty years is 18000 days); so even if we round off to 6 instead of 7, 50^6= 15.6 billion
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left kudos :)


	4. The Arrival

** Chapter Four: **

* * *

"Did it work?" Harry wheezed. He felt unsteady on his feet—logically, he should have been slammed into the hard earth considering that it felt like they had been travelling at unimaginable speeds, but they had merely...appeared. The feeling of sheer stillness after the neck breaking fall was extremely odd.

And his body felt weird too—as if it had been stretched like clay and contorted into bizarre shapes. When he tried to breathe normally, his ears popped. He grimaced.

"Ugh." Patting himself down to make sure there weren't any missing body parts, he turned to the other two. "Neville, Hermione—you all right?"

"Yeah, I'm all right," gasped Hermione. She swayed slightly and Harry gripped her elbow to steady her. "You okay, Neville?"

Neville was bent over, panting, hands on his knees. "Yep."

"That was worse than a portkey," Harry said. He'd definitely found his new least favourite way of magical travel.

Neville nodded vigorously, before straightening up, and dragging a hand down his face.

"Guys, look." Hermione pointed into the distance. Harry squinted. In the light of the gibbous moon, a hulking structure loomed about a mile away. At first Harry thought it was the Burrow, but there was something different about it. It wasn't lopsided, but rather straight and aristocratic.

"Ron said...he said that before the Burrow, there used to be a Tudor building in its place that was destroyed in 1978." Hermione pulled out her wand with a shaking hand, and intoned. " _Diem_."

A glittering green light materialised in front of them, before coalescing into the numbers—'28 1 1975'. They hung in the air, until Hermione dropped her hand on which they vanished.

Harry let out a shaky laugh, and another, then another. He couldn't seem to stop. He felt indescribably giddy.

Hermione muttered, "Oh Merlin" and Neville joined him in his laughter. "We did it!" he shouted in glee. "We actually did it!"

Neville swept both of them in a hug, and Harry could feel Hermione shaking beside him, still muttering endless ' _oh_ 's.

"I was wondering when you'd start freaking out," Harry told her, laughing. "You were far too calm while casting the spell. Frankly, it scared me a little."

"C-Calming Potion," Hermione said shakily, and then let out a hysterical little laugh. "We are in 1975! Harry, we are in 1975!"

Harry barked another laugh, and the other two joined him and he wondered if this was how it felt to be drunk on magic.

It was only when a flock of birds took flight from a nearby tree and light came on in one of the windows of the Tudor building that they stopped giggling long enough to apparate away.

* * *

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes, Harry."

" _No_ , Hermione."

"I'm still taller than you."

"Dammit, Hermione!"

"Children," Neville interrupted them, hands on his hips. "If you'd stop this for a second, perhaps you'd notice that the tracker just went off?"

It was nearing dusk, and they were outside the magical tent they had brought along with them. They had decided to camp in the Forest of Dean again, since they would be going to Hogwarts in seven months anyway. The first thing they had done was take four drops of deaging potion to deage them back to fourteen, or fifteen in Hermione's case.

Harry had been surprised to find that there was a permanent deaging potion. Hermione had rolled her eyes and told him it was a good thing he was going to take his OWLs again, because didn't he ever _read_? It had been a century since Phineas Nigellus' time and obviously, there had been advances since then.

Still, the potion could only deage a person about fifteen years before it lost its effectiveness. It was also extremely illegal because it had first been developed as an assassination method by Elizabeth Nott in 1953, to deage her political enemies' heirs back to a few cells.

Harry had blankly pleaded her to _stop_ telling her all these true, horrifying facts. He had enough nightmares in his life, thanks.

The potion also had an annoying side effect. It, apparently, reintroduced those teenage hormones. And while Harry had been a tetchy, moody brat when he was fourteen, now that he didn't have anybody after his life, _yet_ , he found out that this time he was an aggravating, and irritating fourteen year old brat. Which brought him to this—annoying Hermione. They were sitting outside the tent on a mossy log in mid-March, with a ludo board set between them, and Harry was trying to prove that _no_ , _he did not move his piece when she wasn't looking and how dare she call him a cheater._ Hermione had unfortunately deduced his one weakness while insulting him—his height. Merlin, why did he have to be such a scrawny bugger at fourteen? That was when Neville interrupted them.

"Which one?" said Harry, immediately standing up. They had been following death-eaters for weeks, mostly lower level ones, hoping to catch any indication of the diary or the cup horcrux, but there hadn't even been a whisper of anything.

"Travis McAllen." Neville replied, as they made their way back inside the tent. Last week, they (or Hermione, really) had put a low level modified tracking charm on an unmarked death eater that was, for all intents and purposes, little more than a thug. It would go off when the death eater had no magical person within a couple hundred meters of his person.

"Where is he?" Hermione asked, as Neville examined the map they had attached the charm to.

"Somewhere south of Godric's Hollow," he replied. He rolled up the map, before shrinking it and slipping it inside his jacket. "It's my turn, right, Hermione?" he asked brightly.

"Right," she said in obvious disappointment, but held out the vial of Veritaserum nonetheless. "Remember, three drops."

"Sure, Hermione," said Neville, taking it. Hermione gazed at him doubtfully, as if fully expecting the Nervous Neville of their fourth year to make a comeback, but finally turned to Harry.

"Are you sure you'll be okay with the memory charm, Harry?" she said a little condescendingly. "Remember—"

"Hermione, have a little faith, okay? We've practiced for weeks now. I'll be fine," Harry said in exasperation. He paused, before slyly continuing, "you don't remember getting drunk and snogging Neville anymore, do you?"

Hermione's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open, while Neville choked on his spit next to him. While Hermione spluttered, he quickly grabbed Neville's elbow to drag him out of the tent.

"Bye, Hermione!" he called after him. Hermione's furious and mortified face appeared at the mouth of the tent just as he spun.

"That- that didn't happen-HARRY JAMES POTTER—" Hermione's shriek cut off when he disapparated, and appeared a moment later in Godric's Hollow, with Neville at his side, who was looking at him in betrayal.

"Thanks for that, Harry," Neville told him, voice sharp with sarcasm. "Really."

"No problem, mate," Harry replied cheerily. He looked around. This part of the town wasn't familiar to him. "Glad to help smoothen the course of true love."

"That's wasn't what I meant!" Neville's voice was squeaky with terror, as if he thought that Hermione was listening in right now.

Harry started to walk towards a direction he hoped was south. "Nice girl, Hermione. Good set of lungs on her," he called over his shoulder, quickening his pace. "Reminds you of your grandmother, eh, Neville?" he whirled around to waggle his eyebrows at Neville, who was still frozen on the spot in mortified horror, while retching inside. "It's alright to have a bit of Oedipus complex, you know—"

"I'll kill you, Harry!" Neville shouted when he finally ran after him, while Harry sprinted away, cackling madly.

-/-

Finding the death eater was stupidly easy. Stunning him and dragging him behind a copse of trees even more so.

"I feel like I should be insulted," said Neville, as he poked the death eater with his shoe.

"Nah," said Harry, propping the man up against a tree. "You've just become spoiled. I mean, what's a lowly death-eater after Bellatrix Lestrange, the Carrows and Voldemort's pet snake, huh?"

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"I won't forget what you said about my Gran just because you keep buttering me up."

"I wasn't," Harry said unconvincingly but returned to his inspection of the man. "Hmm...Let's see... _Accio wand_. _Accio portkey._ " Only the man's wand zoomed into Harry's hand. " _Accio hidden weapons_."

Nothing happened. "Wow, we've really scraped the bottom of the barrel here," Neville said in disgust. He pulled out the vial of veritaserum, and uncorked it. Tilting the man's face, he opened his jaw with one hand, and dropped three small drops on his tongue with the other.

"Rennervate," said Harry, jabbing his wand at the man's temple.

The man's eyes blinked open and immediately took on a glassy sheen.

"He's all yours, Neville," said Harry, still keeping his wand pointed at the death eater.

Neville took a deep breath. "What's your name?"

"Travis McAllen," the man replied in a flat, gravelly voice.

"Are you a death eater?"

"Yes."

"What are you doing in Godric's Hollow?"

"I was searching for Dumbledore's house. The Dark Lord is planning to raid the village near Dumbledore's ancestral home to teach the old fool a lesson. He wants to find its exact location."

Neville and Harry glanced at each other. This supposed raid wasn't in any of their lists they had made in the future. Had they already changed it so much? They hadn't even done much of anything yet except enrol in the Kwikspell correspondence school because they needed to attend it for at least six months before applying to Hogwarts. The only thing they _had_ done was follow the death eaters. And stake out the Ministry of Magic several times. They planned to break into it the next week.

Hermione had finally told Harry and Neville what she had meant by 'breaking into the Ministry anyway' remark. Apparently, she wanted to break into the Department of Mysteries to steal a time turner.

"Hermione, you do realise that breaking into the department of mysteries is harder than breaking into the OWLs office, don't you?"

Hermione despite turning bright red, had primly replied, "It's for a good cause, Harry. If we want to stop any raids, we need to be at two places at once. Especially once we are at Hogwarts."

Harry had shaken a finger at her, not knowing whether to be impressed or mad, "You sneaky witch! You just wanted to take your OWLs again, didn't you? You're still smarting over that E in Defence!"

Hermione had turned his nose up at him before turning to walk away. "I'm not that petty, Harry. Stop being paranoid."

Harry had simply shook with the feelings warring inside him. OWLs had been horrifying enough the first time, not to mention the NEWTs, which were called 'Nastily Exhausting' for a _reason_. "I'll get back at you, Hermione, just you wait!" he had shouted after her.

(He did get back at her. Several times. Neville had just been an unfortunate casualty.)

So with them not having done much of anything except be sneaky, Harry was somewhat at a loss. Perhaps this raid _had_ happened in the previous timeline, but had been thwarted somehow?

He said this to Neville, who nodded but still looked troubled.

"Since when has Voldemort been planning this raid? And when will it happen?" Neville asked the death eater.

The death eater replied in a tone devoid of inflection. "Since the last two raids. Dumbledore showed up within minutes of us each time. The Dark Lord thinks he has a spy within our ranks. He wants to attack on Easter."

Neville looked like he wanted to continue this line of questioning, but stopped at Harry's gesture. The veritaserum would wear off soon, and they really didn't have much more at hand. The stuff was expensive and difficult to brew, and even more difficult to buy, considering it was illegal to do so.

"Alright, has the dark lord ever given any death eater anything for...um...safekeeping?"

"I don't know."

Harry kicked a stone in frustration. This was like 1997 all over again. The waiting part was the worst. That along with the _not knowing_. Harry wondered if he hadn't made a mistake after all in arriving so early. Sure he wanted to meet his parents, and save lives, but everyday there was the looming possibility that they had changed too much already, that they _would_ change too much before they knew where all the horcruxes were. That Voldemort would move them, or give them to someone else.

"Do you know the names of any other death eaters?"

"Scabior."

"That's it?" exclaimed Harry. "What about the others?" When the death eater remained silent, Harry amended, "Why don't you know the names of any other death eaters?"

"We are not told any names. We only know the names of our direct leader."

Harry snorted in disgust. "We will never find anything this way," he said to Neville. "We need someone from the inner circle."

Neville's shoulders dropped. "Hermione said it would be too dangerous..."

"It would be dangerous to let the horcruxes _be_ , Neville!" Harry said. "Who knows how the future is going to change? What if Voldemort gives them to someone we don't know about?"

Neville shrugged. "I'm with you on that Harry," he said placidly. "But I'm not going to be the one to talk Hermione into this. She'd be more likely to listen to you, anyway."

"Pfft, _no_!" Harry snorted, shaking his head in an exaggerated manner. When Neville merely looked flatly at him, he heaved a sigh. "Fine. But she's mad at me right now, just so you know."

"And that wasn't your fault at all," Neville coughed.

"Fine, okay. I'll talk to her," said Harry, trying to think of a way to get Hermione to agree without outright falling at her feet and begging her. Hermione had agreed to this whole time travel thing though, and that was a far wilder idea than capturing a death eater far more advanced in magic than them. Maybe his luck would hold? "What do we do with him, then?" The death eater was still blankly staring at nothing in particular.

"Erase his memories?" Neville frowned at him, clearly wondering why he was asking this question, when they'd already thought out what to do beforehand.

Harry looked him square in the eyes. "What if we did something more...permanent?"

Neville paled a little, but pursed his mouth and looked just as firmly back at him. "You mean...kill him?"

Harry knew they'd never have been able to do this if Hermione was with them right now. As often as Hermione had herself broken hundreds of laws, she could be extremely stubborn and moral at the most unhelpful of times. This death eater might have been just a thug right now, but this was war, and neither the Ministry nor the Order would ever do what he was about to propose. Perhaps, even if they couldn't find horcruxes for months or even years, they could do some damage to Voldemort's supporters.

"Not exactly..." And Harry told Neville what he wanted to do.

* * *

Travis McAllen appeared with a pop. It was nearing midnight, and a crescent moon hung in the night sky above an abandoned building. The man didn't startle, when, with another pop, another masked death eater appeared beside him. With a nod, both set off through the doors, ignoring the tingling over their bodies as the wards detected their magical signatures. Travis walked silently along the long, deserted hallway that led them to what once must have been the dining room, which housed another couple dozen masked men and women. These people comprised some of the outer circle death eaters that had never gotten the privilege of meeting the dark lord yet.

But that would change today. Today, they would be marked.

A tall figure in robes stood with their back to them in front of a crackling fireplace, his long, spidery fingers playing with a wand. The dark lord appeared deep in thought as Travis silently took his place among the figures that stood against the wall, their heads bowed in fear or respect. Travis could feel the death eater next to him shiver slightly upon spying the dark lord's face. They'd heard stories, of course, but, seeing the waxy face and the terrifying visage in person was enough to make their courage fail.

Travis would have been fearful too, but his mind was glazed over with an omnipresent calm. As it was, all his mind could do was distantly think this should have been the most terrifying night of his life.

The door creaked shut as a hulking figure entered, and immediately dropped to its knees beside the dark lord's chair.

"Scabior," the voice was barely distinguishable from the fireplace's hissing flames. "My loyal servant. You have trained them well."

Scabior removed his mask and began kissing the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. "I live to serve, my lo—"

The death eater never finished his sentence. A voice had made itself known in Travis McAllen's mind. A voice that told him that now was the time to remove the pin from the grenade he had in his pocket. He watched, as if from afar, as the grenade rolled and came to rest a few feet from him on the stone floor.

The bodies of witches and wizards are stronger than the muggles'. This is because of the inherent magic in them. Even so, they are not meant to withstand extreme heat and pressure and debris flying at high speed at such a close range. The resulting blast killed thirteen death eaters immediately, while the rest suffered gruesome injuries. The dark lord was the only one who escaped unscathed, and that was only because you didn't become a dark lord on your wand-work alone. One had to be extremely quick on his feet. He spun around just as the grenade detonated, unwittingly bringing Scabior along with him as he disapparated.

The voice in Travis McAllen's now mangled head was finally quiet.

* * *

The Ministry of Magic was usually a crowded place, with hundreds of witches and wizards bustling around, looking important, their voices echoing in the cavernous atrium. For Alastor Moody, Head of the Auror Office, today was no different. As he swept out of one of the many fireplaces dotting the walls, his eyes glanced around rapidly, as they always did, taking in every face he could see, observing body language, parsing scattered conversations for anything out of the ordinary. Or as ordinary as the circumstances could be considering the rising dark lord that had recently made himself a nuisance.

Others might be exasperated at his paranoia, but Alastor had not survived past five years as an Auror on his good looks alone. His parents had been Aurors before him and they had raised him to question everything. The smallest suspicious thing could turn out to be something that killed you. And with the increasing number of murders these so called 'Death Eaters' were committing, Alastor was on full alert.

He was just about to reach the lift gates, when someone burst through them. Alastor had his wand in his hand in an instant, but did not lift it, for he recognised the face of his colleague, Proudfoot. Proudfoot appeared a little frantic, but his body relaxed minutely upon spying Alastor.

"Moody," he hissed urgently in his ear, shepherding him into the now deserted lifts. "There's been another incident." He pressed number two multiple times in rapid succession, until the gates clanged shut.

"Where?" growled Moody, his mood darkening instantly. Damn these death eater bastards. This was twice within one month. "We get anyone?"

"Uh...no." Proudfoot looked conflicted. "It happened last night. Some muggle town near Norfolk. Old Barty is in an absolutely foul mood. Apparently, wards around a house dropped sometime around midnight—"

Proudfoot broke off as the lift stopped with a clang, and a female voice pronounced. "Level two. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement—"

Proudfoot and Moody were already walking rapidly to the Auror Offices. They stopped outside one door that said, ' _Head of Magical Law Enforcement_ ' beneath the words ' _Bartemius Crouch Sr._ '

The secretary waved them through without a word.

Inside the large office, Barty Crouch was pacing back and forth. Some distance away, Senior Auror, Benjamin Savage stood, his arms crossed in front of his chest. From the twist to his mouth, Moody gathered that he was irritated. Glancing at the other side of the room, he knew why. Two men stood silently by the bookcase, one of them smiling affably. Moody recognised the tall pock-marked visage of Augustus Rookwood and resisted the urge to growl. _Unspeakables_. Always meddling.

"Ah!" Crouch halted mid step upon spotting them. His face was pinched and there was furious look in his eyes. "Moody. Proudfoot. You're finally here. Good. Take the portkey and bring back a complete report. The obliviators are already there." Dismissing them with a hand, he turned to the Unspeakables. "I hope the report of three of my best Aurors would be sufficient?"

The smiling man, also known as Rookwood, said pleasantly. "The rules state that an Unspeakable must be present in case of an unknown magical phenomenon. As you know, the preliminary reports suggest the use of an unknown blasting curse—"

"I know the rules!" snapped Crouch, seemingly finally dropping his polite facade at Rookwood's pointed jab. If Crouch was anything, it was a stickler to rules. "I also know that we can't determine the cause of death without a _proper_ investigation by _competent_ —"

"Let's go," Savage muttered to them, holding out a broken quill, ignoring the argument going on. "Before the Unspeakables forcibly tag along. Barty will delay them as long as possible, but even he can't stop Bode and Dolohov when they are determined."

Proudfoot and Moody quickly touched a finger to the portkey, just as it glowed blue.

-/-

The scene of carnage that met them inside the house nearly made Proudfoot retch. As it was, it was only the vicious glare that Moody sent him that made him stay in the room, green and shaking as he was. Proudfoot was a relatively new recruit, and even though he had seen more death than most, considering the times, the coldness and impersonal nature of the Killing Curse could never quite hit you the same way the brutally torn apart bodies did.

Moody ignored him. He pushed every emotion to the back of his head and coolly observed what he could see. Bodies littered the otherwise empty room. Casting an imperturbable charm on his shoes, so that the blood and debris didn't stick, he walked to the centre of the room, some white pieces cracking under his steps. There were sixteen bodies that he could spy, and they were mainly against two opposite walls, and in a single line, as if they had been put there by someone, or... Or as if they had been standing there when the curse hit. A fireplace was fitted in the third wall. Moody bent down to prod the charcoal a little. The embers glowed.

"Look how the bodies are lined," Savage said from behind him. Moody straightened from his crouch to turn to face him. "Almost as if someone arranged this little scene."

"No," Moody growled and shook his head. "The fireplace is still hot. These people were here last night for something." He bent down to examine a nearby body whose robes were in tatters. A single dull eye gazed back at him. "Wounds are consistent with a blasting curse. It wasn't a ritual, was it? No potion gone wrong?"

Savage shook his head, even as he cast a detection spell designed to register magical residue. Though with the wards crashing down, they'd be hard-pressed to distinguish any magical signatures. He was proven right when the results came back inconclusive except for a large magical discharge consistent with falling wards. Savage sighed and told him, "We couldn't find any potion residue or cauldron parts during the preliminary report."

"Any names?"

"Most faces are too mangled for identification. We'll need to do a blood test," Savage pointed to a body near the door. "Though one obliviator recognised Alden Allois. He owned a shop in Hogsmeade."

Moody continued examining the body. Something was bothering him, something that was off about this whole thing. A blasting curse that looked like it had been cast from the centre of the room. But he'd never heard of a curse that had a spherical scope like this, killing people on both sides of the room. A potion blast would have been more accurate, except for the lack of any potion residue. There was also the fact that there were minimal burns on the bodies, and the clothes were tattered but not burnt.

And what were these people doing here, in the dead of the night?

Something smelt off about this whole thing, and Moody's stomach twisted. He had long since learnt to trust his gut feelings.

And then Proudfoot said something that changed everything.

"Moody? Savage?" he was holding up a white mask that was all too familiar.

-/-

"Death Eaters?" Crouch looked like he didn't know what to think. "Are you absolutely certain?"

Moody grimaced. He couldn't blame the man. For years now they had only had moderate success in capturing the followers of the Dark Lord. And today in one sweep they had discovered not one, but sixteen of them, dead. It boggled the mind.

"We couldn't tell at first," Moody told Crouch. "But it's undeniable. We recovered one mask intact, but the pieces littered on the room tell me there must have been at least sixteen originally."

"Sixteen bodies," muttered Crouch.

Moody nodded.

"Who killed them? He who must not be named?"

Moody scowled. This was something that had been bothering him. "The dark lord may be insane, but even he wouldn't decimate a large portion of his army. No, the curse must have been cast by someone else, a defector, maybe."

"A vigilant?" Crouch frowned.

"At least two. Two people, back to back, casting at the same time. The death eaters could have been too surprised to raise a shield."

"We need to keep this quiet." Crouch sighed, massaging his temples. "A vigilant or two killing sixteen death eaters in a single day when we've only captured about a dozen in five years? The press will eat us alive. Remind your agents not to speak a word to them. I'll handle it myself."

Moody nodded. "What will you say?"

"An undercover agent, perhaps. Whose name we won't release for security purposes."

Moody resisted the urge to roll his eyes and turned to leave the room. His hatred of death eaters was only rivalled by his hatred of the press. He was only too happy to let Crouch deal with them, even though the thought of claiming to do something done by somebody else rankled at him. He wanted to be known as something the Death Eaters feared, but only on his own merit.

He opened the door, only to collide with someone. He had his wand on their throat in an instant.

It was Crouch's secretary. She squeaked in fright, but Moody rolled his eyes and stepped back to let her in. With a fearful glance in his direction, she hurried to Crouch and whispered something in his ear that made Crouch pale and stand up at once.

Moody paused, wary, as Crouch rushed towards him.

"Sound the Alert Zero-Two. Someone has just broken into the Department of Mysteries."

Moody's gut knotted itself back again.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update: On or before 1 May 2017


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